


Control

by SophieRomanoff97



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anorexia, Background Relationships, Big Brother Mycroft, Bulimia, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Eventual Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Eventual Relationships, Gay Male Character, Greg is Sweet, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Minor Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft Whump, Mycroft is Sweet, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft is a Softie, Mycroft-centric, Non-Canon Relationship, Pining Greg, Possessive Sherlock, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Pre-Relationship, Protective Greg, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexuality, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Silver Fox Lestrade, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-06-07 22:45:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15229593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophieRomanoff97/pseuds/SophieRomanoff97
Summary: Mycroft has a secret- a problem that started in childhood and has grown and blossomed into something dangerous. How will Sherlock cope? how will he help his brother when he needs him the most? Will Mycroft be able to tell Sherlock before it kills him?Slow burn (ish, not super slow) Mystrade, caring brother Sherlock, and some doctor John thrown in.Info inside.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Everyone! This chapter was originally posted to ff.net in 2012. I never updated there was just this one chapter. I've made some small tweaks because to be frank I couldn't write for shit back then. I like to think I'm a lot better at it now. Hopefully this will become a multi chaptered fic and I hope to do the characters justice. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone! This chapter was originally posted to ff.net in 2012. I never updated there was just this one chapter. I've made some small tweaks because to be frank I couldn't write for shit back then. I like to think I'm a lot better at it now. Hopefully this will become a multi chaptered fic and I hope to do the characters justice. Enjoy!
> 
> Tws for all things mentioned in the tags so please read them first. Most importantly I'm this chapter are eating disorder stuff and drug use and overdose.

Sherlock loved to tease him, had ever since they were kids. Any childish name Sherlock could think of, he would call him them. Fat, ugly, mundane, boring, stupid. It hadn't been his fault, Mycroft knew this.

He had been so eager to leave, eager to go off to college and university, leave behind his stifling and borderline abusive parents. 

He'd left Sherlock at home, had just gone as soon as he could. But when he returned, at birthdays and on Christmas, there would always be one new name.

Mycroft knew it was his baby brother's way of coping with his disappearance. Mycroft had been there through the bullies and the fights and the tears and then he had just been gone.

As hard as it were for an outsider to believe, the two Holmes' brothers had been exceptionally close when they were younger. It had been them against the rest of the world; against the goldfish surrounding them.

When he'd left, he had called, he emailed, he tried his hardest. But slowly they'd stopped talking, their relationship had become strained, broken.

The link between them had been broken, and Mycroft blamed himself. Only himself. Sherlock had been young and easily influenced, when he had reached high school, Sherlock had just…he'd just crashed. 

Mycroft had been away for a year, and the two had only had contact a few times. When Mycroft got a call from Mummy, his stomach had dropped.

He'd been beaten up, badly, was in hospital. Mycroft had dropped everything and rushed home, rushed to his brother. He'd sat by Sherlock's unconscious form, gently brushing the black, matted curls from his face. 

Sherlock had been twelve then, Mycroft nearing seventeen.

When his brother had woken, he'd told Mycroft to go. 

That he was nothing, that he was fat and useless and he'd let this happen to him. 

He had left. 

Sherlock's words had never bothered him before.

Mummy had always been weight conscious but he hadn't, if he was hungry, he had ate. If he wanted cake, he'd have cake, he'd have whatever treats he wanted.

Something had changed that day. He started to hear his fellow students, his teachers, he started imagining that people were talking behind his back. 

That they were sneering and laughing and pointing. That he was fat and he was useless and he just had to lose weight. He had to be better.

He ate nothing that night, nor the day after that.

Three days passed without anything other than water passing Mycroft's lips. He was nothing if not determined, he'd managed to go through his school day without passing out.

He spent the fourth night hunched over the toilet, throwing up water and bile before collapsing on the tiles. 

When he came to, he dived for his cupboards, eating everything he got his hands on. Ravenous, starving, hungry, so fucking hungry. 

Why shouldn't I eat? He's wrong, they're all wrong.

School had continued as normal except now Mycroft noticed things, things he didn't want to see. 

He saw boys, he saw girls and teachers and he saw their weight. He saw what food they ate, he wondered how much he could eat without putting on any weight. 

He saw students with baggy jumpers and tired faces, with plump cheeks, hunching over in pain. 

Dull eyes, gaunt faces, limp hair. Disgusting. Right?

He originally thought so. But days went by and he didn't stop seeing, didn't stop imagining. 

He'd heard a conversation one day, just in passing. A girl with a bright smile, her friend gushing about how much weight she looked like she'd lost.

The look on the unknown girls face was something that had always stayed with him. Radiant. Gleeful. Hopeful. 

She'd been so happy, so happy that someone had noticed, that was she was doing behind closed doors was working.

Months passed and Mycroft kept up all his classes, got the best grades possible. 

He'd started dieting, cutting back sugary foods, fatty foods. He ate full meals but they were healthy meals. 

Mycroft still wasn't happy. He yearned for control, and so he stopped eating when he was hungry and only ate when his body was on the verge of collapse.

Many times, he'd gone past that stage and simply dropped, but still he saw no problem. 

He was in far too deep to stop now. Three years and Mycroft was eating just enough to keep him alive. Just. 

He was exercising constantly in between work- a /minor/ position in the government. 

He'd had little to no contact with Sherlock in all that time.

Mycroft had been twenty-five, Sherlock just twenty-one when they finally saw each other again, face to face. 

Mycroft had been keeping tabs on him- people, cameras. One of his men called Mycroft whilst he was in the middle of a work-out. 

Sherlock was in an old abandoned flat, he looked bad, really bad. Mycroft'd changed, calmly, and got into his car, driven to the apartment.

He'd found his brother face down on a ratty old mattress, breathing ragged, his long limbs shaking. 

His lids had been half open, the blue irises rolling and glazed over. He'd chuckled, a hoarse, hysterical laugh as he'd pointed. 

His arm had been covered in bruises and puncture wounds, his fingers trembling as he jabbed Mycroft in the chest. 

"Myc." He'd muttered, glazed eyes roaming over his brothers body.

A few seconds later, his eyes had rolled back, body jerking and twitching, lips blue and face pale.

Mycroft had rushed him to the hospital where he had spent the next week watching over Sherlock.

The youngest Holmes was thin, cheekbones pronounced, face gaunt.

Mycroft had been smaller.

He'd never admit it to anyone, not even himself that he had been proud of himself for it.

Years went by, Mycroft climbed his way up the ranks, Sherlock got off the drugs and found a job with Gregory Lestrade. 

They'd had some contact, more than they had before.

Then John had come into the picture and Mycroft found that he liked him, he was good for Sherlock. 

He was eating more, sleeping more, he had someone to look out for him.

Mycroft remained alone. He liked it that way. It was easier to distance himself and not get involved. 

It also made it easier for him to hide his secret. His dangerous, horrible secret that a nearly comatose Sherlock had seen years ago and never mentioned again. 

In fact, the quips continued. Jokes about his weight and food and cake and he wondered sometimes if his baby brother saw, if he knew and said nothing. 

He wasn't sure if that saddened him or if he was grateful. But he was sure that Sherlock knew, maybe he was being stubborn or he didn't care, Mycroft did not know.

So imagine his surprise when he saw the concern in Sherlock's eyes. 

Mycroft was thirty, Sherlock twenty-six now. It was sometime after the Irene Adler incident and Mycroft had gone to 221B, arms filled with folders- cases for his annoying little brother. 

Gregory was there, sitting in John's armchair, the doctor at work. 

Mycroft had been talking through one of the cases when the faint tingling had started up in his hands.

He'd shifted, hiding his discomfort, leaning over the table to push one of the pictures forward. 

His vision was swimming, blurring, pulse beating frantically against his temples.

He swallowed hard, throat dry. 

He forced himself to try and calm his breathing as he stepped back, unconsciously seeking out an armchair. 

He missed, the dizziness too strong.

"Mycroft?" a pair of arms came towards him, and he instinctively stepped back. 

He knew he was going to pass out, and he couldn't even make it to the chair.

How embarrassing. 

His hearing faded and the darkness stole his vision as he fell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for any mistakes. I'm exhausted and will re check tomorrow. Thanks for reading!

Sherlock had known something was wrong with his brother the moment he stepped into Baker Street.

More wrong than usual.

But he was Sherlock, notorious for finding any excuse that meant he didn't have to deal with emotions.

He's watched uneasily as Mycroft had explained the cases to him, looking over at Lestrade to see if the man had noticed anything amiss too.

But Greg was too buried in the papers, tips of his ears pink as he did his best to ignore the other man.

Sherlock only huffed and crossed his arms.

It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to realise that Greg had quite the crush on his brother.

It might have been endearing, if it weren't for the childish sneaking looks, pining eyes, and the fact whenever Mycroft came around he wasn't able to hold much of a conversation without stuttering or flushing.

Anyway, when it became obvious Lestrade would be of no help, Sherlock turned his gaze to his brother.

Mycroft didn't seem sick.

Not in the traditional sense anyway.

But something was definitely not right.

It started with the beads of sweat at his forehead, then the trembling in his fingers, then the blinking way too much to be normal.

Sherlock was out of his seat in seconds when Mycroft seemed to stumble back.

"Mycroft-" Sherlock reached for his brother, frowning, thinking he could at least guide him to the chair he was trying to find.

But it wasn't that Mycroft was dizzy enough to warrant a sit down, he was dizzy enough to full on pass out.

Sherlock floundered for a second as he tried to stop his brothers head hitting the floor. 

At the sound, Greg had also instantly moved over to them, eyes wide.

With Mycroft on the floor in the middle of them, Sherlock took a deep breath. 

"Call John. Tell him it's important." Sherlock instructed, feeling slightly better when he felt Mycroft begin to stir already. 

"Greg, call him." Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

A million thoughts raced round the detectives head.

Thoughts that the mundane around him would never think to consider.

For example, Mycroft hadn't been coughing or sneezing and didn't have a temperature, so could he have been poisoned?

Sherlock pushed the thoughts away and focused on what was in front of him.

Mycroft had lost weight. He was extremely stressed out at work. The man never seemed to drink anything other than black coffee or tea. 

So stress, dehydration, not eating enough. 

Sherlock carefully touched his brothers forehead, swallowing and trying to push out the deduction that screamed at his subconscious.

He was very rarely wrong. And he hated to be wrong.

But he wouldn't complain this one time.

Because if it what Sherlock was thinking was true, Mycroft was in a lot more danger than first thought.

And Sherlock had somehow missed it.

"My-" he murmured, as the man moved and groaned softly. 

"Brother." He braced Mycroft's shoulders as his brothers eyes flitted open.

"Lock?" Mycroft frowned, rubbing at his forehead as his younger brother helped him sit up.

His voice seemed small.

"You're okay." Sherlock said quietly, brows furrowed. "Don't get up too quickly."

Mycroft flushed, ducking his head and sighing softly. 

It wasn't the first time he'd woken up on the floor, but it was certainly the first time Sherlock had witnessed it.

He knew his brother wouldn't leave well enough alone now.

Despite appearances, the brothers had been close once upon a time. 

And sometimes that closeness made itself known.

"My." Sherlock tried to meet his gaze. "What is going on?"

Greg had left the room to call John, reassured that Mycroft had already been coming around and not wanting to intrude on the moment.

"I..." Mycroft was for once at a loss for words. His next sentence could fracture everything.

"I think I may have gone too far." Mycroft said quietly, frowning.

"Top far? Myc-" the youngest brother swallowed and shook his head. 

"What have you done?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Quite a short chapter I know. More is coming


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm super sad and my chronic illness is keeping me in bed so other than binging the new season of oitnb the only thing I can really do is write so here I am. Hope you enjoy! Warnings for mentions of childhood abuse.

Mycroft pushed himself into an actual sitting position, clearing his throat as he shifted his gaze from his brother.

There would be no going back if he said those words.

But he could tell by the look on Sherlock's face that he already knew.

"I..." 

Mycroft didn't do flustered. He didn't do embarrassed.

Not usually.

But this secret was his life's biggest.

Including all the shady stuff he had done in the past at his ‘minor’ job position in the government. 

"I have...I am..." Mycroft flinched and sighed. "I have an eating disorder, Sherlock."

The dark haired man sat back on his heels, hands steepled under his chin.

His brows furrowed and his lips tightened as his chin trembled just a little.

"Myc-" he swallowed, suddenly reaching his hands out to him before pulling them back to his chest, unsure.

They weren't those kind of brothers.

At least they hadn't been for a long time.

Mycroft had looked after Sherlock for much of their childhood.

Their parents had been... quite not good.

Mycroft had cared for him after every hit, reassured and held him after every fight, every raised voice.

He'd soothed him after nightmares, stroked his hair when he woke up screaming.

He'd taken him to school every morning and picked him up until Sherlock decided he was old enough to do it himself.

He'd helped with homework and projects and violin lessons.

In return, Sherlock hadn't had much to give except his love and adoration.

Mycroft had been his role model. 

His big brother, always there for him.

Then things had changed.

Mycroft had gathered just enough strength to clamber to his feet.

"Myc, hey no be careful." Sherlock stood in one fluid motion, reaching for him again.

This time he didn't pull back.

He pulled his brother into his grip, long arms winding around his back.

Mycroft kept his hands in fists at his sides, momentarily lost for words.

He could feel the moment Sherlock decided he'd done the wrong thing and stiffened, about to pull away.

That was when Mycroft wrapped his arms around his younger brother and held him close, just for a moment.

When they pulled apart, Sherlock cleared his throat and gestured to the sofa. "Sit, I'll make tea."

A very British solution to a problem.

Once tea was made, Sherlock sat opposite his brother.

They sipped their drinks for a while before Sherlock carefully put his teacup down.

"So, brother mine, I think you should start at the beginning."

It would be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it was short, brain fog is real guys. Hope it all made sense and sorry if it was out of character, I've not written these guys properly in a long time. I'm still deciding where to go with this but it shouldn't be long before I update again. Hey, if you like Marvel too, go check out my other many fics. Thanks for the love guys.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. New chapter coming today. Im suffering badly with my chronic illness so this fic and all my others will be a little more sporadically updated until I get over this slump. Please don't comment asking when I'll update because the answer is always when I feel okay enough to write. I'm sorry if it's out of character at all, I'm trying my best. Thank you all for sticking with me. Lots of love.
> 
> Trigger warnings for eating disorders(obviously), self harm, abusive parents.

Mycroft took a sip of his tea, cringing a little at the sweetness.

He took it almost black, with no sugar. Sherlock knew that but he'd made it the opposite.

"You passed out. You need sugar." Sherlock said carefully.

Mycroft sighed and took another sip before setting it back on the table.

"It started when we were younger. I'm sure you remember how I used to eat."

Sherlock nodded, silent.

"It was a comfort. As soon as I got my first job, I would blow the money on food. I would hide it in my room, and after another fight, another yelling match, after you'd gone to bed, I would get it out. Sit on my bed, eat it all. There would be so much food and I...couldn't stop. It made me happy. With that amount of food though, I gained weight fast. You know that. Our parents were...angry. Nobody wanted a fat child, they were even more disappointed in me. They started taking my money from the job, well more than they were already taking. I would have enough to get to work and back, and the rest they would have. So I started walking to work. It took me over an hour each way. I would buy food on the way home, eat it, throw away the packages."

Mycroft sighed, visibly struggling to talk about it.

"It carried on like that for years. I knew then I had to get out as soon as I could. So I used my assistants job. I clawed my way up until I could leave. I got into university and I went. I left you with them, and I'm sorry for that. I'd tried to protect you for so long and I...I stopped doing that the moment I left."

A long inhale and a shaky sip of tea.

"University was so different. I had my own money, my own space and I started eating a lot again. But it was different too. The guilt started. The hate every time I looked in the mirror. But food was still a comfort so I...I would eat it all and then I started to purge it. It started with just the binges, I would only do it when I'd eaten a lot. But then it...It grew. Every time I ate anything, I purged it. I stopped enjoying food, it stopped being a comfort because I knew what would come after. I started to stop binging. It hurt every time, I would be in agony after. Eventually I stopped eating any meals at all. There was no point. Then I stopped eating full stop. When I had to eat, when I got too sick, it would be a little at a time. I didn't purge it because I knew I would be ill without it. I controlled it. Ate only when I absolutely had too, and got no enjoyment out of it. I haven't collapsed in years. I'm good at it."

"Until today." Sherlock said quietly. 

"Until today. I've been feeling ill all day, but I've had no time to eat anything. A perk of the job is I rarely have time to focus on eating. It just so happened that I was so busy, I couldn't."

Sherlock exhaled and sat back in his seat. "Jesus, Mycroft. How did I not notice this?"

"You might have." Mycroft said honestly. "But I imagine it's in the back of your mind. You saw the weight, and assumed I was just busy, stressed, or physically ill. You notice, Sherlock, you just didn't come to the correct conclusion."

"Or I didn't want to see it." Sherlock shook his head. "I've been a bloody awful, brother haven't I?"

Mycroft actually chuckled. "I wouldn't say that."

"I would." Sherlock murmured, deadly serious.

"I should have seen it, Myc. But I'm not looking away now. I'm here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, I know. A filler chapter to explain some more background. Hope you enjoyed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, new chapter coming! I don't have much of a plan for this fic, I know it's kinda bad, so I'm just writing and wherever it takes me is where we go. I hope you enjoy.

Mycroft sat back in the armchair, watching his brother for a moment.

He hadn't seen this much emotion from Sherlock in...a long time.

Before Mycroft had left, they had been quite inseparable.

Sure, Sherlock had been the golden child. All curly hair and dimples, small and cute and angelic.

Mycroft had been the opposite; ginger and chubby and freckled and pale.

But when they had been children, it hadn't mattered.

Sherlock had been favoured, that was undeniable, but their parents had been cruel to them both.

Mycroft would often take Sherlock out of the house on the bad days. They lived close to the beach and they would spend hours there.

Sherlock would smile and splash around and his laughter would warm Mycroft's heart.

He had been an emotional kid.

School had been rough and home was no less terrible.

He would cry, sob and scream, his wails piercing the walls.

Mycroft wasn't sure when that had changed.

Well that was a lie, he had changed early into his teens, but Mycroft had been at university by then. 

He blamed himself.

He blamed himself for a lot of things.

But now they were adults and Sherlock was watching him with sad eyes and Mycroft wasn't sure how to handle that.

But even more than the look, was the name. The nickname that he hadn't heard for...probably over two decades.

"Sherlock, this wasn't your responsibility." Mycroft drained the god awful tea and set the mug on the table.

He swiftly swiped through his work phone before standing.

Sherlock stood too, brows pulled together. "You can't leave." 

"I have work, brother mine, this isn't something I can put off." He'd only come to drop off those files, he'd been in Baker Street far longer than he intended already.

His phone was full of messages and Anthea was already waiting outside with his car.

"No, you're not well, you're not leaving." Sherlock's chin jutted in that defiant, slightly childish way and his arms crossed over his chest.

Mycroft just managed to stifle a sigh; he had some decorum left.

"I have work to do." He repeated evenly, taking a couple steps towards the door.

Sherlock's eyes darkened as he moved too, sliding in front of him as he reached the door.

Mycroft was growing frustrated. He was not a child anymore. And he was the oldest, dammit, not Sherlock.

"If it is really that important to you, I will call when I am finished." Mycroft reached for the door handle, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as Sherlock got in the way.

"Not good enough." Sherlock pushed the door shut again, and Mycroft pulled it open once more.

"Mycroft, this is important. Not just to me. Watching you leave, knowing you could die before I see you, that you're so sick you just passed out in my home."

Mycroft swallowed. "Yes, it's hell isn't it, Lock?" His gaze was pointed.

Sherlock immediately understood, blush creeping up his neck and cheeks.

"That was different." He muttered.

"How was it? I watched you leave doss-hole after doss-hole. Sometimes you didn't come back." Mycroft said, even and calm.

Sherlock looked down, pale hands wringing together.

"Well then you know how I feel about letting you leave." He looked up.

Mycroft stood at the door for a good minute before nodding. "I do. But I also could never control you, you did it anyway and I'm afraid we are not that young any more. I have a job that needs doing."

He pulled the door and this time Sherlock didn't stop him.

But someone else did.

At the bottom of the stairs, Greg stood. "Sorry, 'fraid I can't let you go just yet."

"Were you listening?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"No, of course not. But John isn't here yet and you need to get checked over." Greg raised an eyebrow too.

The eldest Holmes' hummed. "Well then, Gregory, it would appear we are at an impasse."

"Yeah, I guess we are."

A tiny smile from Mycroft and the man nodded, turning at the top of the stairs and heading back into the flat.

He missed the brilliant smile on Greg's face as he followed him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! It's been a while I know, sorry about that. I'm trying to come up with ideas for this that aren't too boring but atm I'm having trouble thinking of anything action-y to do so in the mean time you'll get some kinda fluffy still a little angsty filler stuff.
> 
> The idea for this chapter came from an rp with my bestie. So Wrider, this is for you

After Mycroft re-took his seat, Greg joined them in the living room, taking John's armchair.

"So, since we have some time to kill, why don't we have a look at some of these cases?" The inspector suggested, picking up the discarded files of cold cases that Mycroft had brought over.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and sighed softly but still hummed and reached for a file. He hadn't had a chance to look through them himself, knowing that solving them meant Sherlock had less to occupy himself with.

He very much hoped this wouldn't turn into another famous Holmes war, with Sherlock trying to beat him with every new finding, with how quick he could come to conclusions. They always seemed to leave them both in sour moods, and Mycroft wasn't sure he could handle his getting much worse at this point.

Usually with the wars came name calling and little digs at one another, when one brother missed something or solved it quicker than the other.

Another thing Mycroft hoped to avoid; far too tired and in too much of a volatile mood. He wasn't quite sure he'd be able to hold his tongue as he usually did if Sherlock said something personal.

However, as they looked through the first case, Mycroft's worries eased a little. Rather than rushing to get clues in before the other, they found themselves working off of each other.

One brother would point out a clue, the other would explain it and work out if it rang true. One would say something about the case that didn't seem right, and the other would try to figure out why.

The crime scene photos were spread out across the table, all three men leaning in to get a proper look.

Greg found that time with the siblings had enhanced his skills a little; he was able to point out bits and pieces, offer clues that even the Holmes siblings hadn't found yet.

Mycroft watched Greg with careful eyes, lips pulling up into a tiny smile when the man would point something out. He didn't offer any words of encouragement, sure they'd sound false and condescending but he was impressed nonetheless.

He'd grown used to Sherlock's genius, and it caught him off guard to realise that Sherlock and himself weren't the only clever people in the flat.

Not that he hadn't known Gregory was smart, in a manner of different ways, but this kind of thing was second nature to him and sometimes he forgot that others were good too.

It was a refreshing thing to realise and he found himself finding clues but deciding to hang back on voicing them and sure enough, Gregory would get a good chunk of them minutes later.

"I'm starting to think you didn't need our help." Mycroft directed at Greg, who cleared his throat and shrugged.

"Guess I picked up a couple of things hanging around here so much." Greg looked away from Mycroft's face and back at the pictures on the table.

Nonsense, Mycroft wanted to say, you have always been as clever as this.

But he didn't say it.

He just hummed again and opened a brand new folder, sitting that one out, just watching as Sherlock and Gregory got stuck in.

Mycroft loved to solve things, and he loved for people to know that he'd solved things, though Sherlock loved it even more.

It felt...good, actually, to just watch for once. His brother and Gregory had quite a long past, and some of it had been just as volatile as his relationship with Sherlock had been.

Mycroft had been blamed, though not through words, for getting Sherlock onto drugs. And Greg had been blamed, definitely through words, for not allowing him drugs any longer.

Sherlock had been clean, to the best of Mycroft's knowledge, for over a year. Three hundred and ninety one days, if he was being exact.

Sherlock had been on drugs for the entire meeting Greg and working for him period. Up until a year ago, Greg had never met a clean Sherlock, not during the entire four years of knowing him.

Now that Sherlock had been clean for a considerable amount of time, the detective inspector was starting to know the real Sherlock. The brilliant, witty instead of cruel, loving man that Mycroft knew he'd always been, no matter how much he pushed it down.

So watching the pair bicker lightly as they dove into another case, was actually a surprisingly wonderful thing to witness.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the emotion of past years catching up with him, but Mycroft's throat felt just a little tight.

He wouldn't cry, he knew he wouldn't cry, couldn't remember the last time he had, but the physical symptoms of crying remained nonetheless.

Gregory had been such a big part of Sherlock's life; had given him a job and purpose and had almost singlehandedly (because Mycroft was not wanted anywhere near it) detoxed Sherlock up to five times and eventually gotten him completely clean.

Mycroft owed such a huge debt to the man, one he would never be able to repay. And he hated owing anyone anything, but for just this one thing, he didn't mind terribly.

So caught up in his mind and his memories as he was, he didn't notice for a couple of seconds when John appeared at the door.

Mycroft's stomach flipped uncomfortably because in no way, shape or form, was he looking forward to this. He knew he was ill. He also knew how his stats would look, because he never went to the doctors and monitored himself with home equipment. 

He knew Sherlock's brows would furrow and he'd look at him with that oh so young, wide eyed gaze.

He could imagine the pity in Gregory's eyes and the barely concealed worry of a doctor in John's.

The case files forgotten for the moment, Sherlock stood fluidly from his seat and Mycroft braced himself for one hell of a conversation.

This would likely not end well.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. It's been a while and I have no doubt that updates will be sporadic. I'm going through a bit of a rough patch with my health and I'm not doing so good. I know you guys want chapters and I do too! They are coming just please bear with me if they come later than you thought they would. I love writing and it's the only thing I ever really do so by no means am I going to stop. 
> 
> This one's a little short. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

As Mycroft had predicted, the check-up from John and the ensuing conversation with him and his brother had been no fun at all.

He'd known what John would find, but it made it no easier to hear it from someone he trusted.

His blood pressure was 60/55, his breathing was slow and shallow, oxygen less than 100, his pulse was at 55, temperature at about 97. 

It was all out of whack; too low, too slow, too cold.

John was not happy.

Not only were all his vitals pretty awful, his hands were freezing, that thin downy hair covered his exposed skin, he was pretty severely dehydrated and John wasn't entirely convinced that Mycroft's organs were dealing with the stress, his kidneys in particular.

To put it frankly, his body was shutting down.

John sat back in his seat, stethoscope around his neck. His fingers templed against his lips, in a way that was so uniquely Sherlock. He took a breath and glanced around at the other three men in the room.

"Mycroft, I'm going to be blunt. Because you need someone to be blunt with you right now. You're dying. Honest to God, organs shutting down, dying."

Mycroft cleared his throat and bobbed his head in a nod. He'd known that, deep down, he'd known that.

Sherlock, however, for all his deducting, hadn't believed it was at that stage yet.

Dying.

His brother was dying.

But John kept on talking, "with these readings, I would usually be sending you straight to the nearest hospital, but you're not going to go, are you?"

Mycroft didn't need to shake his head for the others to know John was right.

The silence was palpable, thick and heavy with the weight of John's words.

"Then we help him here," Sherlock finally spoke, getting up to his feet, "if you won't get help anywhere else, then we help you here. You find a specialist you trust, they come here, they tell me what to do and I do it."

Mycroft's brows pulled together and he sat forward, hands on his thighs. "Sherlock...this isn't yours to deal with."

The younger Holmes looked angry now; jaw tight, nostrils flaring, fingers clenching into fists.

"You're my brother, of course it's mine to deal with." His eyes had darkened as he stood, tall and empowering, stormy gaze on Mycroft, daring him to say otherwise.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said again, a slight tremor to his voice. That was all he said.

Sherlock smirked, though it clearly wasn't a happy smirk, a resigned smirk. "Then it's settled. Mycroft, you'll have to get Anthea to bring you some things, John will set the guest room up and we'll look for someone who can help." The man paused, gaze on Greg and John, now silent in their seats. "If either of you want out, I would understand, I will not force you to help my brother through this, but...I do ask for your support."

John rubbed an absent hand over the stubble lining his chin. "Well, it seems like you're going to need a doctor, and who would be better?"

Sherlock's answering smile was nothing short of beautiful.

"Lestrade?" He asked next.

Greg looked over Mycroft for a few seconds before gazing up at Sherlock. "What else have I got to do, huh?"

Sherlock turned to his brother, "then it's sorted. You're staying and you're accepting this help whether you want it or not because I'm you're brother and I know what's best for you." His words echoed Mycroft's to him, years ago, when he tried to get him clean.

Mycroft was silent for a moment more before sitting forward, hands clasped.

"Very well, let's begin."

**Author's Note:**

> It was short I know but I'm hoping to update soon. Comments make me happy. Thank you if you've been waiting a long time for this (if you came from ff.net) and thank you for reading if this is new to you. I appreciate you all so so so much.


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